


Gratitude

by second_skin



Series: Bespoke (Mycroft/Sally) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, E-mail, F/M, Stalking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:01:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Sally calls it stalking. Mycroft calls it gratitude.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gratitude

The first package arrived at the Yard a few days after Sally had cleared most of the pressing paperwork from the drug cartel case, and she was feeling pretty damn good for a change. That morning she was strutting and taking compliments from Lestrade and Dimmock about how well she'd done at the press conference.

"Hell, you can do them all from now on, Donovan," Lestrade had declared with a chuckle. "Not a single embarrassing remark and you managed to keep the lot from the tabloids on topic for half an hour. Better job than I can do most days."

He'd said all that right out near the lift, where half the team could hear him. Yeah, she had reason to be feeling like things were going her way for a change. So when the mail boy dropped a mysterious box on her desk along with the usual HR rubbish, she was too cheerful to be suspicious as she might have been any other day. She hadn't been expecting anything‚ and she rarely had personal packages sent to the office--but it was clearly labeled from one of her favorite shops. Looked legit‚ no serial killer scrawl, no white powder.

Inside the box she found a pair of brown suede boots. Three-inch heel, knee-high. Kitten-soft. They weren't the sort of _Come over here and fuck me, sailor_ stilettos some girls went for. They were more _I'm a bit of work, mate, but I'm worth it_ boots. Precisely the ones she'd been staring at on her laptop at home for three weeks.

She knew she had no business spending £300 for boots you couldn't even wear in the bloody rain. But God, they were gorgeous.

She snuck off to try them on. The luxurious feel of the suede on her calves was better than any sex she'd had in months. Sad, but true. But where the hell had they come from? Not the sort of thing her mum would send. And Anderson--well, that fiasco had ended months ago, and he was too stupid and self-absorbed to think of sending a birthday card‚ much less an expensive gift for no occasion at all.

She decided to enjoy the boots just a little while and worry about what sort of mad stalker had sent them tomorrow.

Tomorrow came, and so did another package. This time, a set of DVDs-- _The Wire_. She'd been looking at them online just the night before. She usually fell victim to Idris Elba lust when she'd had too much wine, and last night was no exception. _Shit._ Clearly, she really did have a stalker. She was going to have to talk to Lestrade and probably a few of the IT guys about this and figure out who was hacking into her system at home. _What a bloody pain in the . . ._

Her email queue beeped with a new message, and she glanced over at the screen.

 

_Dear Sergeant Donovan,_

_I very much hope you enjoy the small tokens of my gratitude. And I hope you won't think me too forward in sending them to the Yard. I thought that less presumptuous than sending them to your flat. I assure you I intend no unseemly behavior, and am not, as you may be imagining‚ a "stalker." Merely a respectful admirer._

_Your servant,_

_Mycroft Holmes._

 

Holy fuck. Mycroft Bloody Holmes?

Without thinking, she hit "Reply."

 

_ARE YOU TOTALLY DERANGED???? YOU SENT THOSE??? Of course I thought you were a stalker! Did you hack into my computer at HOME? That's a CRIME AND YOU BLOODY WELL KNOW IT. But I forgot--YOU AND YOUR FREAK BROTHER don't bother about what's legal and what's not. YOU'RE BOTH ARROGANT, MAD SODS AND OUGHT TO BE LOCKED UP._

She hit send. Hit it three times, just to be sure. As she sat shaking with rage and staring at the computer screen, a new message appeared.

 

_Dear Sergeant Donovan,_

_I surmise that you have some objections to my methods._

_Let me assure you again that I simply wanted to express my gratitude for your expert police work at the embassy last week. Please accept my deepest apologies if I have offended or alarmed you._

_You're quite right. It may have been rash and inappropriate to use the surveillance systems at my disposal for research in this particular case. My aim was not to intrude upon your personal life, but merely to find a suitable gift and token of my esteem. I shall delete your intriguing online shopping history from my hard drive straight away._

_Again, my sincere apologies._

_Your most humble servant,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

_P.S. I'm sure you look smashing in the boots. I'd love to see them sometime. At your convenience, of course._

 

 

Sally started typing another all caps, profanity-laden reply, but then stopped mid-epithet. She slouched back in her chair, staring at the screen. Unable to continue. She wasn't completely sure why she'd stopped.

It wasn't that she was worried about tangling with Mycroft Holmes and his dark superpowers. She'd always found both the Holmeses more irritating than scary.

It wasn't that she was worried about using the Met's email system to call the man a _FUCKING NUTTER_. She'd sent plenty of scathing emails and texts to Sherlock over the years and had been given a nod and a wink by the bosses, not scolded.

As she tried to analyze her response to this turn of events, she had to admit that the thought of Mycroft Holmes looking at her in her new suede boots was playing in a continuous loop in her head now. And it had set off a ticklish little sensation of need in the small of her back.

She logged out of her email and went to the loo to splash some water on her face--to see if she could snap out of it. It was the most bloody stupid thing, anyway. Just nonsensical. The very idea of someone so posh and prim like Mycroft Holmes being a stalker. _Huh. Ridiculous_. She fluffed her hair and freshened her lipstick.

Then she found herself leaning against the cool tile wall, eyes closed, moving a hand down the front of her trousers, and pressing two fingers firmly against her clit, trying to stop the insistent, eager little pulses that had begun the moment she'd seen his name at the bottom of the email.

_Your servant? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was he winding her up?_

She turned her cheek to the wall and pressed a little harder, imagining herself telling Mycroft Holmes exactly what to do. First, she told him fuck off and keep his nose out of her private life . . . . Then told him to unbutton her blouse. _Oh God. No. No. No._

She could feel wetness seeping through her underwear now. _Fuck. Why couldn't she stop thinking about him?_ What if Mycroft Holmes was in some dark government office just . . . just what? _Watching_ her? Reading her emails, her Google history? Shit. How many embarrassing tumblrs had she looked at in the past week? Was he reading her thoughts too? That bastard. How was he _invading her brain_ like this?

She stepped inside a stall and locked the door. When she closed her eyes, she conjured Idris's face-- _nobody was more different from Mycroft than Idris_ \--his enormous shoulders, his dark bedroom eyes. She imagined his hands touching her, instead of her own. But she couldn't control the fantasy for long, so there he was, in the background: a tall, pale figure leaning on an umbrella. _Watching. Smiling._

She came quickly. Just a few short gasps and a warm wave of release.

 

When she got back to her desk, there was another email waiting.

 

_Dear Sergeant Donovan,_

_Dinner tonight?_

_Your devoted servant,_

_Mycroft Holmes  
_

 

She squirmed in her chair. Felt a little contraction and a tickle.

An aftershock.

 

She poised her fingers above the keyboard, trying to talk herself out of it. Then started typing.

 

_MH,_

Okay.

_7:30. Angelo's._

_SD_

 


End file.
